Merciless (3 page)

“Anything exciting happen on shift?” I asked.

“Nope.” His breathing slowed.

“Wanna hear about a day in the life of an FBI agent?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that I took as affirmative. “I can give
you very explicit information on the federal government’s procedures and policy on
riots.”

Dawson made the noise again. A noise I now recognized as a snore.

Funny. That was the same reaction I’d had.

S
ince Dawson was still sleeping, I decided to stop at the Q-Mart for a cup of joe rather
than waking him with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

My cell buzzed right after I’d made the turn onto the main road leading to the rez.
“Gunderson.”

“Where are you?” Turnbull asked.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. I wasn’t running late. “About ten miles outside
of Eagle River. Why?”

“Because we just got word that Arlette Shooting Star has been found.”

Found. Which equaled dead. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. Evidently, hunters found her at first light. The tribal police are
on the scene.”

“Where are you?”

“At the tribal police station. Officer Spotted Bear is catching a ride to the scene
with me. Hang on a sec.” The line went quiet. Then, “He said you’re supposed to turn
south on the Junction Eighteen cut across. Know where that is?”

“About four miles ahead of my current location.”

“Entrance to the scene is marked at the first cattle guard. We’ll meet you there.”

Dammit. As much as I’d whined about wanting fieldwork, finding a young girl’s body
in a field wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

At the turnoff, I slowed and hung a right over the cattle guard, where I saw the flashing
beacon perched on the fence post. I wouldn’t have needed the marker since I’d been
to this make-out spot many times during my high school days.

Two older-model pickups were parked, the front ends pointed toward the tree line fifty
yards ahead. Three guys wearing neon-orange hunting caps and camo clothes sat on the
tailgates.

As soon as I exited my truck, I heard the muffled sounds of barking. I squinted and
saw a flash of golden fur inside the cab of the closest truck. At least they’d had
the sense to lock up the dog.

I didn’t recognize the guys, so color me surprised when the oldest man spoke. “Hey.
Aren’t you Mercy Gunderson?”

“Yeah,” I said to him. “Who are you?”

“Craig Barbour.” He pointed to the younger version of himself; the guy sitting next
to him was about fifteen. “My son. Craig Junior goes by Junior.” Then he gestured
to the smallish guy in the other pickup, who appeared to be the same age as Craig
Junior. “That’s Junior’s friend. Erik Erickson.”

“Wish we could’ve met under different circumstances. Thanks for sticking around.”

“So what’re you doin’ here?” Craig Senior said suspiciously. “You lost the election
for sheriff, right?”

“Right. Now I’m working for the FBI.” It still felt ridiculous flashing the FBI badge,
but I’d get used to it. “What were you guys hunting?”

“Geese. Got permission from Terry Vash to get rid of some of them. We were on our
way to that pond.” He jerked his chin to an area where cattails poked up.

“We’d hoped to get lucky right away, because we were supposed to go to school today,”
Junior added, “but Duke wouldn’t stop his barking. So we locked him up, thinking maybe
there was a mountain lion or a coyote close by. We moved closer to the trees, and
that’s when we saw her.”

Silence.

When Craig Senior said, “Who’d do something like that to a girl?” I knew what had
happened to Arlette Shooting Star was bad.

“That’s what we intend to find out. Do any of you know her?”

Erik and Craig Junior looked at each other. Then Erik said, “I’ve seen her at school.”

“Me, too, but I ain’t never talked to her or nothin’.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably need you all to stick around for a little while longer.”

I walked between the trucks toward the Eagle River tribal police patrol vehicle. The
cop leaned against the driver’s-side door so he could watch both the scene and the
entrance to it. He pushed to his feet at my approach.

“Hi.” I thrust out my hand. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson. FBI.”

“Officer Robert Orson.”

Officer Orson had about as much Indian blood in his genetic makeup as I did—I was
only a quarter Minneconjou Sioux, which was just enough to slightly darken my skin
tone and lighten my hair color to light brown. I had at least a decade and a half
on him, age-wise. But he had about a foot on me height-wise. Man. He was one tall
guy.

“Wyatt Gunderson was your dad?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t work with him much since he took ill right after I signed on with the tribal
PD, but he seemed like a good guy.”

“He was.” A gust of wind blew, scattering dead leaves and bringing the wet scent of
decay. I faced away from him, taking in the eerie scene. “I’m surprised there aren’t
more people here.”

Orson shrugged. “It’s early. And since she’s the tribal president’s niece, we’ve tried
to keep it off the scanners. Brings out the gawkers, ya know?”

“What time did you get the call?”

“About an hour and a half ago. I was closest, so I drew the short straw.”

“Me, too.” I squinted at the tree line but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary
from this angle. I let my backside rest against the hood.

“Aren’t you gonna go poke around the crime scene?” he asked.

“Nope. My”—I bit back the word
partner
—“the other FBI agent en route has more experience. I’m new enough I’d probably muck
it up.”

“I hear ya there.”

“Is this your first dead body?”

He gave me a strange look. “On the rez? Hell no. Not since I’ve been a cop and not
before that.”

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Four years. The first two I worked security for the jail. I got moved up after I
finished the six-week training course.”

I wasn’t the type to make small talk, but something about this kid kept my gums flapping.
“Is being a cop what you thought it’d be?”

“Honestly? No. I hate all the domestic calls. I spend most shifts busting up fights
and arresting drunks. Seems nothing ever changes.”

“You got family around here?”

“My wife does. Or else . . .” His gaze hooked mine. “Never mind. I’m tired and babbling
like an idiot after working a twelve.”

I leaned closer to him. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it. But the Eagle
River Sheriff’s Department is looking for deputies. It might be an option if you want
to change it up and stay in the area.”

Officer Orson nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

The suggestion was purely selfish on my part. I wanted to ease the sheriff’s workload,
and I suspected Dawson was in the interview process with applicants, although he never
spoke of it to me. And this young kid would be a better fit in county law enforcement.
Only so much room for advancement in the tribal PD if you were mostly white.

“When we got the BOLO on Arlette, I just hoped we’d find her alive.”

Took me a minute to remember that BOLO was shorthand for “be on the lookout” and not
a western string tie—worn by cowboys and Indians alike around here—instead of a real
necktie. “Did you know her?”

“No. Pisses me off that someone did this to her. All violent deaths suck, but it’s
worse when it’s a kid.”

I shoved aside the images of the other dead teens I’d seen in the last year. “So when
she went missing, and you were talking to her friends about why she might be missing,
did anything strike you as odd?”

He cocked his head. “I didn’t talk to her friends or family. I’m too low on the departmental
totem pole for that job.”

The sound of approaching vehicles brought us both to our feet. We
watched as two SUVs and an ambulance bumped past the pickups, stopping behind Officer
Orson’s patrol car.

Special Agent Shay Turnbull was first out of the black SUV. Not only did he own an
authoritative presence, I’d seen his charm work with nothing more than a smile. I’d
watched him wrest control of a situation with a single word. I understood how lucky
I was to be unofficially training with him, even while I also realized Mr. Perfect
FBI Agent had done something serious to derail his promising career and end up in
rural South Dakota. Not that he’d shared his deepest darkest secrets with me. Although
mine were an open book, as he seemed to’ve memorized my military history.

The sun hadn’t burned off the early-morning cloud cover, yet Turn-bull wore dark shades
in the dim gray light. He claimed his sunglasses provided anonymity. I think he believed
the lenses gave off an air of mysterious badass. Must be a guy thing because Dawson
wore his sunglasses all the damn time, too.

Three other tribal cops followed Turnbull. One carried a camera.

“Agent Gunderson,” Shay said to me in lieu of a “good morning.”

“Agent Turnbull, this is Officer Orson. He’s been keeping an eye on the crime scene
and the witnesses since the initial emergency call.”

Turnbull nodded then addressed me again. “Have you been over there?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s go.” He tossed me a pair of latex gloves and signaled to the camera guy. “I
want pictures of everything. And I mean
everything.
”

I knew Turnbull preferred his own FBI team on crime scenes, but that wasn’t always
possible. This reservation was two hours out of Rapid City, so most agents were familiar
with being their own Evidence Response Team, or ERT—in FBI speak.

I hadn’t asked Officer Orson to describe the scene, so as not to skew my initial impression.
When we reached the clearing where the body had been laid out, I wished I’d had more
warning about the brutality of the situation.

Arlette Shooting Star was naked. A long piece of wood, driven directly through her
heart, staked her to the ground. Dried blood spattered her chest. A dark stain spread
across the dirt beneath her slim torso. Her arms and legs were precisely arranged
in a T formation, not in the akimbo manner consistent with the randomness of a body
falling to the earth. Her brown eyes, covered in a milky blue film of death, were
wide open. Her top teeth covered her bottom lip, her face forever frozen in a grimace
of pain.

The photographer began snapping pictures of the body from every possible angle. Turnbull
said nothing. He just squatted as he moved in a crouch, scribbling in his notebook.
The other two cops who’d arrived with him flanked Officer Orson. None of the men said
anything. We all just watched, trying to reconcile the horror of what we were seeing.

I’d never been a fan of forensic shows. Since joining the FBI I’d had to learn forensic
science, not just to look for the physical clues that often get left behind. The victim’s
body trauma leads profilers to a specific type of person capable of carrying out such
a violent crime. I’d often wondered what these profilers would make of my sniper tactics.

You’ll think of anything to take your mind off the reality of this young girl being
abducted. Tortured. Probably raped before she was brutalized.

“Agent Gunderson?”

My focus snapped back to Turnbull. “Yes?”

Before he could give instructions, another vehicle screeched up. Doors flew open.
The all-male tribal police were much slower to react than I was.

I heard the agonized shriek and managed to get ahold of the woman running toward the
crime scene. Triscell Elk Thunder, I presumed. But she was determined, and she dragged
me a few steps before I solidified my stance.

“Arlette?” she screamed, fighting me. “Arlette!”

“Ma’am. Stop. Calm down.”

“Is that her?” She twisted and jerked.

I literally dug my heels in and held on.

She continued to flail. “Let me go!”

“No. You don’t want to see her like this.”

That angered her even more. “You have no idea—”

“Yes, I do.” I shook her then. Hard. And got right in her face. “Listen to me. Trust
me. You don’t want to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t erase it, once you see her like that. It’ll never go away. It won’t
give you any closure. It’ll haunt you. Is that what you want? To have that memory
every time you think of her?”

She stopped thrashing.

I could feel everyone around us staring. Waiting. I wasn’t certain I hadn’t somehow
overstepped my bounds.

Her resolve and resistance vanished. She crumpled to the ground with heart-wrenching
sobs.

A tall, older Indian man—whom I saw only from the back and assumed to be her husband,
Tribal President Latimer Elk Thunder—dropped to his knees in front of her, blocking
her view of Arlette. He coaxed her back into their vehicle. He spoke briefly, angrily
to a tribal cop, and then they left.

Numb from the cold, I waited by a fallen log. I remembered this area was lush and
gorgeous in late spring. Sloping hills of green dotted with wildflowers. Cottonwood
and elm trees budded out, sunlight glinting off waxy new leaves. The breeze blowing
across the pond would be heavy with the scent of fresh vegetation and sun-warmed earth.
Now this place was an ugly reminder of the encroaching harshness of winter.

Turnbull finished his instructions to the ambulance crew. I didn’t know these EMTs,
since they were from the tribal dispatch, although I’d been involved with the Eagle
River County Emergency Services personnel so many times in the last year and a half
I knew them all by name. Not exactly a badge of honor.

Agent Turnbull approached me. “I’m sending the body to Rapid City. Someone from the
crime lab can pull the urine and blood tests. If not, we’ll have the county coroner
perform the exam.”

“Exam? No autopsy?”

He shook his head. “Standard procedure in Indian Country. For most traditional Indian
families, an autopsy is considered a desecration of the body and the spirit. Especially
in children.”